


you're a bitter kind; I love you so

by attonitos_gloria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Married Couple, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attonitos_gloria/pseuds/attonitos_gloria
Summary: “It’s just pain,” he murmurs, tone flat, eyes wandering. “I’ve been living with it for the whole of my life.”“And just because you’ve grown used to the pain it means you should do nothing to relieve it?” Sansa wonders.[Tyrion is stubborn, but so is Sansa.]





	you're a bitter kind; I love you so

_Oh, darling, you will be good to me, won't you? Because we're going to have a strange life._  


(Ernest Hemingway, A farewell to arms)

  
  
  
  
  


…

It's worst at night, she thinks.

His legs are worse since the end of the wars. He walks slower, now, waddling even more, and sometimes abruptly stops his way when sudden pangs of pain assault him. It is precisely what happens as they retire together to their chambers, at the Rock – too high and big a place, too many stairs. He leans on the wall by his side for support; Sansa closes the distance between them, holding him out of habit, and he clutches her hand, also instinctively. It is part of the weird dance of their little life together, implicit in their cursed vows, that she must tend to him.

But Tyrion is a Lannister, through and through, and soon he lets go of her. “I’m fine,” he mutters.

“I know,” she says, but remains in his surroundings, her hands ghosting around him in case he needs them, until they get to the room. He finds a chair, his favorite, emerald-green and adjusted to his height, and lets himself fall in it with a exhausted sigh.

She has said it countless times in the last months, but Tyrion is not the only one with the prerogative of stubbornness in their marriage, so – “You need a cane.”

He doesn’t even bother to look in her direction anymore. They haven’t started and she already knows every step. “I don’t.” With a period; Sansa listens to the punctuation mark.

“My lord –” she begins, walking towards him, but he cuts her off before she can argue.

“Only Tyrion,” he reminds her, closing his eyes and massaging the point between his eyebrows. “I don’t need a cane. I’m not _that_ old.”

“It has nothing to do with your age,” she says, trying to be gentle, and sits on the arm of his chair. “I don’t understand what is so terrible about using a cane.”

“It’s not like I need to give them one more reason to loathe me,” he mumbles, cynic, and Sansa can’t contain her dry chuckle. Her hand reaches out to run through his hair. Does he really believe this non-sense he talks about sometimes? She thinks of all the possible reasons the West has to loathe him, and decides that perhaps tonight, she should let him win.

She kisses his brow, then, and leaves to order him a bath.

  
  
  
  
  


…

Sansa gives him some moments, but eventually she comes in, delicately removing her clothes and joining him in his bath. He rests against the wall of the tub, almost asleep, and the air is moist and dense around them. The water is warm enough; it helps with his pain. She comes closer, finding his legs under the water, and starts to massage them, firm but slow, the right one first.

Tyrion holds his tongue until he can’t bear it any longer. “You’re not my nurse,” he states, but he is sighing, too, and not pushing her away.

“Well noted,” Sansa concedes, smiling. “If you’re bathing naked with the maids and servants of Casterly Rock, Tyrion Lannister, you are in serious trouble.”

He laughs, at last, and Sansa raises her eyes so she won’t miss the view, just as she does not want to miss any second of the sound. She adores it when he laughs. It is such a rarity these days. She changes to his left leg. “You worry too much,” he says, his voice kinder now.

“If I don't worry about you, who will?” she asks, and doesn’t wait for the answer. “I’m your wife.”

“It’s just pain,” he murmurs, tone flat, eyes wandering. “I’ve been living with it for the whole of my life.”

“And just because you’ve grown used to the pain it means you should do nothing to relieve it?” Sansa wonders.

He turns his head, looks at her, then. Very softly. And does not answer.

When Sansa thinks it enough – both the massage and the silence – she slides to his lap, the water pulling her to him, wavering with small pleasant sounds as she moves. Her legs straddle his body, and he wraps one arm around her little waist. “You should listen to me more often,” she scolds lightly. He brushes a thumb over her nipple, and almost smiles.

“I always listen to you,” he whispers.

“Then get a cane.”

He bows down to place a kiss on her bare chest. “No.”

Sansa sighs, defeated. For the night.

“Are you feeling better?” she asks, knowing he will lie, stroking his cheek.

“Yes,” he cleans his throat. “Thank you.” Her husband clearly has some problem with receiving help, more so if said help comes covered with any form of kindness. It seems to Sansa this is just another reason to take care of him; a bewildered Tyrion Lannister is, indeed, quite a sight.

And so she wraps her arms around his neck as he buries his face between her breasts, and she _feels_ him breathing. It is a trembling, quiet thing, and it still amazes her to this day the knowledge of his fragility. Weak bones; the sharp edges where he has been broken; stories she doesn’t know and doesn’t care.

They survived. Sansa only sees the future. The past is not of her concern – and he won’t talk about it, anyway. She holds his face and brings his mouth up to hers. 

“I see what you're doing, wife,” he murmurs, but his lips are still somehow sealed to hers and it is hard to take him seriously.

“You said you were not that old,” she snaps back.

He chuckles and kisses her again. It is half a victory; he never complains of his pain in these moments. Sansa thinks it is a remedy as good as any other.

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from "The Paper Kites - Tenenbaum"  
> yep. coping with s8 y'all


End file.
